


Rainstorm

by m_class



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Character injury mention, Crying, Gen, Georgiou lives AU, Hugs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Interpersonal Trauma, Mostly at the end, Post-Season/Series 01, Recovery, a bit of, aftermath of war, character death mention, gotta have a hopeful ending for these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_class/pseuds/m_class
Summary: When Michael takes a moment to mourn all that has happened over the past year, Philippa offers her a shoulder to cry on, and together, they discuss the nature of pain, trauma and loss.





	Rainstorm

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of this fic was inspired by [this gorgeous Michael art](https://tin-can-spaceship.tumblr.com/post/177324939760/hello-for-the-palette-challenge-michael-burnham) by [tincanspaceship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincanspaceship/pseuds/tincanspaceship) (different outfit, but same concept).
> 
> This fic takes place in an AU wherein Philippa is brought forward in time (I’m thinking by Ripper trying to do something nice for Michael, but the details don’t have much bearing on this particular fic) from the moment of her death to the Discovery at the end of S1. This story is set a few weeks after the medal ceremony at the end of S1; Philippa is out of the hospital and up to speed on everything that happened during her absence, and she and Michael have already had their initial needed conversations (Michael and Philippa are in agreement that she shouldn’t have assaulted Philippa, so it’s not so much a question of whether Philippa forgives Michael’s actions as whether she forgives and is at peace with Michael as a person, which she very much is. She was also furious to hear that Starfleet tried to pin the entire war on Michael, and probably would have used her decorated-captain reputation to go on a PR rampage on Michael’s behalf if the Starfleet PR people hadn’t already rehabilitated Michael’s image.)
> 
> I wrote this fic because on the show Michael is so often the character who gives the most, while receiving the least amount of support from those around her. This is my attempt to let her have the hugs she deserves. :)

The fields behind the hotel where the majority of the Discovery crew is being housed are green and sprawling, dotted with trees and stretching into the distance as far as the eye can see. As she walks away from the hotel’s buildings and out into the gently rolling landscape, Michael takes a long, deep breath. The air is humid, tinged with the scent of the coming rain. The sky has been overcast since yesterday, and the clouds have been growing thicker and heavier since this morning, but there’s no lightning in the forecast, just rain. So, Michael walks.

She couldn’t say, if asked, exactly why she headed out here after this morning’s meetings, no more or less interesting or concerning than any of the other meetings that have taken place since debriefings ended and preparations for Discovery’s next mission began. But as she walked down the hall back to her quarters--to her room; they’re hardly on a ship at the moment--after lunch, the double doors at the end of the hotel’s rear hallway beckoned, and the next thing she knew, those doors were slipping shut behind her as she made her way out into the fields.

She’s over two hundred meters away from the hotel now, passing one group of tall trees and heading onward toward the next. Even for servicemembers like Michael who genuinely enjoy starship life, it’s always nice to have a chance to walk around, wherever one wants, while planetside, the world stretching out in all directions without curving inevitably back in on itself like the corridors of a starship.

That it’s nice to be planetside is, as ever, a favorite neutral topic of conversation among the crew over a hotel breakfast or at the beginning of a meeting. Despite everything that the war has changed for Starfleet, certain pleasantries remain comforting traditions.

Approaching the second group of trees, Michael feels the rain before she sees it, a fat droplet bursting on her shoulder, quickly followed by others. The patter of raindrops onto the green expanse around her slowly builds to a steady hum, and she takes a left to head directly for the trees, exhaling and feeling her shoulders relax slightly. Standing under the relative shelter of the trees’ canopies, she spins slowly to take in the vast, quiet view all around her. It is beautiful, the rain falling softly down across the open expanse and blurring the green line of the horizon with hazy mist.

Though she had few memories of it from early life, Michael enjoys rain; enjoys the scent it brings to the air and the comforting patter of droplets against roofs and windowpanes. Of course, she isn’t exactly under a roof now, and she smiles wryly at herself, thinking of how much Connor would have teased her for knowingly wandering out into a rainstorm, and all of a sudden she is crying, weeping, doubled over with her arms wrapped around her torso as tears stream down her face. The Shenzhou, _Connor,_ the fury in Keyla’s eyes, the corridors of the Charon, littered with the bodies of the dead, and the empty skeleton of Starbase 1 floating mauled and dead in space--

Michael sobs into her hands, a wail escaping from her throat and her shoulders shaking as pain crashes into her, ripping through her body like a hurricane through paper. She has been working through it, and she has been having the hard conversations, and she has been rebuilding relationships and reassuring her friends and exchanging neutral Starfleet pleasantries over tea and eggs and toast, but the magnitude of all that has happened, the pain of shock and grief, is too much to be felt hour by hour and day by day and so she has put it aside and now--

Now, it’s here.

The rain is coming down harder now, a hissing roar warning of the increase as the falling water turns the air over the fields white. Raindrops pour freely onto Michael through the trees, and she straightens up, staring out at the downpour as tears stream from her eyes and, alone and surrounded by the din of the rain, she allows herself to give in to her sobs.

She killed Danby Connor. His other self, with eyes like his and a face like his and a voice like his... She watched him die in her own universe and then his reflected self tried to kill her and she killed him with her own two hands.

Another wail escapes her, the noise of her grief carried away by the rain, as she shakes her head helplessly, some visceral protective instinct trying to reject the memories as they parade in front of her and she sees them, _feels_ them.

Body after body, lying on the floor of the Charon, killed brutally, killed casually, killed for nothing.

Her quarters on the Discovery. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling nothing.

Now, she feels everything.

Staring up at the rain and blinking as it hits her eyes, Michael feels more hot tears work their way out of the corners of her eyes, rolling down her face along with the raindrops. Shaking her head slightly against the horror of the suddenly-fresh memory of the other Connor’s body sliding to the floor of the other Shenzhou, she lets out a whimper, then a sob, then a still louder wail, and permits herself to weep.

Even as months of carefully managed and restrained feelings flood her, however, a part of Michael’s mind stands to the side, nodding to itself and making a calm note.

She has, after all, been waiting for this. Or perhaps more accurately, she has, at least, seen it coming.

She has seen it coming because she has lived it before--qualitatively, if not quantitatively; if not while mourning quite such an enormous number of deaths.

And she has seen it coming because, years ago and half a quadrant away, she was given a heads-up.

 _Trauma, danger and loss are overwhelming by nature,_ Georgiou would say as she addressed her crew, walking slowly back and forth in front of the rows of chairs set up in the mess hall for funerals, for all-crew addresses, for ceremonies of remembrance. _We marshall our strength to perform our duty in times of danger and tragedy, and you have performed that duty with courage and distinction. In the days and weeks to come, do not be alarmed if your body and your mind begin to process what has happened in the ways that they could not before. Do not be alarmed, and do not feel ashamed._

To Michael, it had been a revelation to think of pain this way, as something that, if buried upon initiation, might nonetheless surface later on not as a sign of failure to deal with that pain (strange though that concept might be to her upbringing) but rather as a natural part of the process of healing. It had evidently been a new concept to some of her human crewmates as well; she can still recall a young ensign recently assigned to the Shenzhou saying, not with animosity but with genuine confusion, “Everyone in Starfleet says Georgiou is this tough war veteran, so why is she so touchy-feely?”

On the Discovery, particularly since the war’s end, Michael has been trying to transmit this message to her new crewmates in turn; a message that, according to Sylvia, is covered only perfunctorily and clinically in the Academy unit on psychological trauma.

_When you’re on duty, your brain is focused, so that you can do the things you need to do to help others and survive. But those feelings don’t just vanish. It’s okay if you need time to process, afterwards, and it’s pretty normal for a bunch of memories and pain and emotions to hit you suddenly, at random times. Don’t be alarmed when it happens, and no matter what, you must endeavor not to feel ashamed._

Standing in the rain under the trees, Michael is hardly surprised to feel it happening to her now, and the calm scientific observer in the back of her mind registers a bit of wry amusement at how, without fail, the pain always does come over one at the randomest times, just as Philippa once warned her, and just as she has been informing the people around her.

Her last full day off, Michael planned to take time to mourn, and spent a quiet day largely in her room, reading over the service records of the lost crewmembers she had been closest to before saying a few quiet words for them into the silence. But, while she is glad to have taken the time for such a ritual in and of itself, the pain didn’t come, her emotions remaining in the same calm, slightly numb check they had been in before. At the end of the day, she curled up in bed watching a ridiculous movie on a PADD, feeling drained and sad but not particularly emotional, and fell asleep.

Then, though she did everything short of setting out a welcome mat for the pain, it didn’t come.

Now, it has.

There is a stone bench under the trees; the surface is soaked, but so is Michael, and she lowers herself onto it, taking a shaky breath.

 _Yes, it all happened,_ her mind informs her gently. _It all really happened. All of it._

Letting out a quiet, keening wail, Michael begins to sob again, her shoulders shaking. The pain is immense, but so, in a way, is her feeling of relief as all the pain and horror and reactions pushed aside and managed and _handled_ for so long finally flood through her.

Or, no, not all of it; not yet. She wouldn’t be able to bear fully feeling _all_ the pain at once. She doubts that anyone could. But now, at least, she is sitting here feeling a good large portion of the pain as her body shakes with sobs and her tears drip down her face, mixing with the rain.

Michael isn’t sure if she’s been sitting there for ten minutes or twenty, the rain still falling steadily but beginning to transition from a roar back into a low murmur, when she sees motion out of the corner of her eye. Twisting, she peers back in the direction of the hotel.

There is a figure moving across the fields through the rain, too blurred and far away for Michael to make out anything more than the blue of her uniform and the color of her hair, but she recognizes her in seconds by her gait. Philippa.

Philippa’s pace is unhurried, her steps heading unmistakably in Michael’s direction as she makes her way across the wet fields. Michael has time to take a few long, slow breaths, although just when she thinks she’s calmed her breathing and brought her sobs to a halt, another smattering of tears pours out of her eyes as Philippa approaches.

“Philippa,” she croaks, her voice choked and inaudible, as Philippa draws even with the bench. She takes another breath, managing to speak a bit more clearly. “Philippa. Hi.”

“Michael,” Philippa says. Her voice, warm and quiet, is pitched just loud enough to be audible over the background hum of the rain, and her eyes flicker over Michael’s tear-stained face and soaked uniform as she rounds the bench so that she can stand in Michael’s line of sight without the latter having to twist to look at her. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I saw you out here, and I thought I might come see if you wanted some company.”

Michael swallows, taking a long, slow breath, and Philippa perches lightly on the edge of the bench to her right. “I know that sometimes, it’s necessary to take some time to grieve alone. But I know that you have a tendency to lean farther in that direction than necessary, trying to protect others from your pain. I thought I might offer my company, if it would be of benefit to you right now.” She regards Michael with gentle solemnity. “If my company would be more beneficial to you another time, however, I’ll leave you to your thoughts for the moment, and we can have a somewhat warmer and dryer--” she glances around, raising an eyebrow-- “conversation later this week, perhaps after all those supply meetings are over and done.”

And Michael remembers this, too, from Philippa’s coaching on the Shenzhou. _If you’re asking someone whether something you’re doing is all right with them, provide an alternative rather than simply putting them on the spot to say no._

She smiles.

It’s so good to have Philippa back, every encounter with her a reminder that Michael did not miss her only for who she is but also for what she does.

Which, of course, is what makes her who she is.

“Company would be lovely. Thank you, Philippa.”

Philippa returns her smile, settling onto the bench. It’s raining harder now, the hum growing back into a roar, and Philippa’s voice is pitched more loudly but just as gently when she asks, “Did something happen, or did things just hit you?”

Michael nods, a few more tears springing to her eyes. “It really does hit you at the strangest times.”

“It does.” Philippa nods, tucking a wet strand of her hair behind her ear, then tilts her head, regarding Michael. “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to talk about it…”

Michael wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist, shaking her head as her voice chokes up again. “You’ve been through so much; you’re grieving too-- _Philippa,_ I, I don’t want you to feel like it’s your job to comfort me--”

Philippa cuts her off with a soft hum of opposition. “Michael, I have spent fifty-five years learning how best to navigate life and loss and relationships at the worst of times. If I didn’t have the wherewithal to be here for you today, I wouldn’t have followed you out into this very soggy weather in the first place. I promise.”

Michael lets a long, slow breath out. “You promise.”

“I do.”

“Thank you--” Michael begins to say, but the _you_ breaks off into a sob, grief bending her in half once again as her shoulders crumple in on her and fresh tears begin to pour from her eyes, something inside her once again allowing the undamming of her grief.

Philippa’s left hand rests lightly between Michael’s shoulderblades as her body shakes, and when Michael finally straightens up again, Philippa stretches her right arm out in a silent invitation. Michael sinks into Philippa’s arms, wrapping her arms around her and resting her cheek against her left shoulder. It’s the first time they have embraced since Philippa’s near death on the sarcophagus ship, and Michael is acutely aware that her head rests only a few centimeters from the long scar left by Philiippa’s wound. But Philippa’s arms are warm and strong around her, her shoulders rising and falling with every breath, and, with her ear squashed against Philippa’s shoulder, Michael can hear her heartbeat. She is here. She is here. She is _here_.

She is here. But for so long, she wasn’t. And there are so many others who never will be here again.

Connor’s twisted and murderous reflection, slumping to the ground as the light in his eyes went out...

Michael can feel herself shaking as she cries. It is too much, it has always been too much, and it happened. It all happened. It happened.

It all really happened, it all was really real, and now it is over, leaving jagged wounds of shock and memory and loss. It is too much to feel, too much to comprehend, yet it happened, so there is nothing to do but to comprehend that it happened, and nothing to feel but its truth.

Here, safe, encircled in Philippa’s arms, there is someone else to help her hold it, to ground the enormity of the horror and the grief, and so Michael lets the horror and the grief flow through her, as powerful as ocean currents, her body trembling with shock and shaking with sobs. She lets it all flow through her, and Philippa holds her.

The rain is letting up again, more definitively now, no longer pouring but pattering sedately down in big, spaced-out droplets, quiet enough for Michael’s sobs to be audible as they fade into silent tears and long, shaky breaths. Periodically, Philippa makes soft sounds of sympathy and murmurs quiet words of reassurance, telling her that everything is alright, that she’s not alone, that it’ll be okay.

“It doesn’t feel okay,” Michael whispers, tears running helplessly down her face. “It’s never felt okay.”

“Shhh, shhh,” Philippa murmurs, rubbing her back. “It doesn’t have to.”

Michael closes her eyes, exhaling, and for a while they sit in silence, listening to the raindrops.

“Thank you,” she whispers at last.

“You’re not alone with this, Michael,” Philippa says. “So many weights you’ve carried for so long,” she adds quietly, after a pause. “I wish I could have been here to help you hold them.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Philippa,” Michael whispers, fresh tears spilling from her eyes.

“I know,” Philippa soothes, rubbing small circles between Michael’s shoulderblades. “I know. None of us can protect each other all the time. Not me. Not you. I wish I could have been there for you then, but we’re both here now. I’m here.”

Michael takes a long, shuddering breath, clinging to Philippa and burying her face against her shoulder. Wordlessly, Philippa leans her cheek against Michael’s hair, and for several more minutes they sit breathing together in silence as raindrops patter onto them and burst against their skin.

“So much happened,” Michael says at last, her voice cracking again into a sob. “So much--so much happened and I did so many things, we had to choose and choose and choose, and I--I did terrible things and sometimes the right thing and even then it was hard every single time. I mutinied an admiral, Philippa,” she says, laughing in shock and blinking against Philippa’s uniformed shoulder. “And Keyla stood up with me...even though she hated me for so long for what I did to you...we talked after...and, and the Charon, all those people from the other universe slaughtering each other by the hundreds for power, for nothing, for…” Michael takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And Lorca and--and everything he...thought about me,” she whispers. “Everything he did...everything he had done...” She swallows. “And Ash...and Paul and Hugh and…”

Philippa is still rubbing soft concentric circles on her back. “Sometimes we did the right thing,” Michael says. “But it hurt every time. And I still look back, and sometimes I scarcely know how to fathom what I see.”

Philippa takes a long breath, her shoulder rising and falling under Michael’s weight, then wraps both arms around Michael, pulling her close. Michael closes her eyes and melts into her embrace.

“You saved the universe, Michael.” Philippa’s voice is rough and strong and sure. “You used your strength and your courage and your choices to _save the universe._ ”

Michael swallows and nods, knowing Philippa will feel the motion, not trusting herself to speak.

“You saved the universe, Michael,” Philippa says again. “But you...I wish…”

As her words trail off, Philippa holds her tighter, a shift that Michael somehow senses is not solely for Michael’s benefit but also for her own. Michael couldn’t say for sure what it is that she’s picking up on--the relative sharpness of Philippa’s arms tightening around her as her words fade, an almost imperceptible tensing in the rest of Philippa’s body, or some other indicator so subtle that a human would call the resulting observation intuition. She isn’t sure in what way Philippa’s emotions have shifted, only that they have. She waits.

There is silence for a moment, then Philippa takes a long breath, in and out, her thumb absently rubbing up and down Michael’s shoulderblade.

“You were put in a position where...to save people...to make what was, in a sense, the only choice you could make...you had to use, to involve yourself in a terrible man’s affection for you. I...the choices you made were strong and heroic, Michael, not helpless, I am not saying that. But that...specifically...that’s a heavy thing to do. And--” Philippa’s measured voice catches just slightly, her quiet words weighted with the restrained force of carefully controlled emotion-- “it’s a situation you _never_ should have had to be in.”

Michael swallows hard.

In all her careful conversations, in all her discussions with Sylvia and Keyla and Amanda and in all the ad-hoc lunch support group meetings with her angry and aching crewmates, she has never talked about this.

After all, there are so many bigger, vaster, more pressing topics to discuss. It’s everything Lorca did in the first place that is overarchingly awful, not the incidental part of the story where she had to use his twisted affection for her against him. When she and others have talked about Gabrial Lorca and what he did, they speak of his enormous crimes, not the fractional details of what occurred. Not of what she had to do--what she decided to do--what she had to decide to do in order to stop him.

And--in the moment, making her plan on the Charon, the decision to use his own horrifying want for her against him felt powerful in a sense; using what he thought had given him power over her to defeat him in turn. Yes, tricking him and subsequently fighting him had given her a feeling of strength, in a way; had served as a rebellion against all that he had done.

But it isn’t a situation she ever would have chosen to wrap herself in, either.

Philippa is the first person who has said anything about that.

“I…”

She can’t think of what, exactly, to say; can’t get her tongue around any coherent words as the emotions flooding her shift from pain and grief to...confusion. Shame. Relief.

“It was,” she whispers. “It was a heavy choice.”

Philippa gives a small, somber hum of acknowledgement, tightening her arms just slightly around Michael, and Michael pulls closer to Philippa in turn, clinging to her in silence. It’s raining harder again now, the delicate roar of the rain over the fields surrounding them as water soaks their clothes and hair and the surrounding expanse turns white with mist.

In a way, Michael is grateful that too many other things happened for anyone to look too closely at that part of their mission, the part where what Lorca felt towards Michael had had to be a part of their plan. Talking about such a thing isn’t exactly easy, especially when there are no simple words for what occurred. (She chose. There was no choice. She chose.)

But in another way, it’s been lonely in a way she hasn’t realized until just now, a pit of knowledge inside her about how Lorca saw her, and everything she did and did not do to make her way through that.

 _It isn’t as though I want to be seen as someone in need of saving,_ she tells herself. It isn’t that she wanted to be seen as someone who needed to be protected from him. But--

Maybe she did need a sliver of that; need a sliver of what she felt when Sylvia stepped between her and poor Ash on the mission to Qo’noS, stepping between Michael and the memories. Maybe she _did_ need a sliver of that kind of protection; maybe it was hard, having no one who looked at what happened between Michael and Lorca on the Charon and saw Michael as in need of protection--

Well, not quite no one. There was, after all, someone on the Charon who did.

Now, Philippa’s arms encircle Michael as the fine rain falls over them, silvering the air over the fields, and there is no longer any mistaking the tension in Philippa’s body, or the edge of emotion in how tightly Philippa holds her. So this is where the mirror meets, reflection and opposition melting together like the hazy green landscape around them, smudging and blurring into the mist.

“You’re the first person who’s--talked about it,” Michael whispers. She can feel herself trembling lightly, shame and anger and confusion rattling her body as she slowly exhales, breathing them out of herself and into the air around them. “It’s not that they don’t care about me,” she adds. “There are just...so many other things that happened that we’re all dealing with…” And Michael hasn’t brought it up; wouldn’t know what words to use even if she did. It’s a hard thing to talk about, and an easy detail to miss.

“It’s a situation you never should have had to be in,” Philippa says again, quietly. “But...it happened, and whatever you need, talking or listening or just--” Her embrace has relaxed again slightly, and she completes the sentence by squeezing Michael in a quick hug. “I’m here.”

Michael smiles against her shoulder and whispers, “I know.”

For the next few minutes, they fall once more into a soft silence. Michael can feel the overwhelming pain that hit her earlier slowly fading, leaving a drained, almost meditative sleepiness in its wake. As for the topic they have just discussed, she feels as though something has shifted inside her slightly, her interactions with Lorca on the Charon no longer a confusing, hidden pain but simply one more thing that happened, one more thing to be felt and processed alongside all the other terrible things that happened, as her mind begins to feel and process them all in turn.

The painful images that flooded her earlier, Connor and the other Connor and Hugh and Paul and Starbase 1, have not left her. But now, contrary to their looming, muted threat over the past months, they feel as though they are resting quietly in the back of her mind, drained of some of their overwhelming power and content to remain in their designated spaces without pushing menacingly to overwhelm Michael whenever she remembers them.

Some of them have been drained of some of their power today, anyway. There are other horrors in her past, other horrors in the universe, that she is barely beginning to address. And even the things she mourned today are defanged slightly, not magically over and done.

But that is better, so much better, than not having begun to process any of them at all.

Michael peels herself away from Philippa’s shoulder, but she takes her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and solemnly meeting Philippa’s eyes. “Thank you for being here for me today, Philippa. Truly.”

Philippa squeezes back. “Thank you for accepting my company.” Her eyes are soft. “I may not always be able to be here for you, but I hope that, sometimes, I will be.”

“And thanks for...for talking about these things, back on the Shenzhou,” Michael says. “Pain and loss and...and the mess of it all, and how it all comes up again, later. And how to keep going to get through it. It does take you at the damndest times,” she adds, wiping a stray tear from her eye as she lets out a long breath. “You were right about that.”

“And so were you,” Philippa says quietly. “About a great many things. Never forget that.”

They sit for another minute in companionable silence. The rain is letting up again, the horizon reappearing out of the mist.

“It truly is its own skillset, as much as diplomacy or cooking or combat,” Philippa says thoughtfully. “Learning the ins and outs of pain. Managing. Healing. Understanding how the mind plays its hand.” She stares into the distance. “Each time something happens, I find myself thinking about that.” Tilting her head to gaze at Michael, she asks, “How has that been going for you?”

Michael thinks for a moment. “It is different, now. As I’ve gotten…” She laughs a little. “Practice. As I’ve experienced different kinds of pain. Learned. Changed. Grown. I don’t mean that ‘pain has made me stronger,’” she adds, not that she thinks Philippa needs the disclaimer. “That odd old Human belief is…”

“Complete and utter bullshit,” Philippa contributes helpfully.

Michael’s mouth quirks. “If that’s how you’d phrase it, Captain, I’ll defer to your sagacious characterization of the aphorism.”

Philippa acknowledges Michael’s acceptance of her wording with a gracious nod.

“You were right about how much it would help, back on the Shenzhou, back when you first encouraged me to learn these things. The ins and outs of how the mind processes loss. It’s helped me, that research. Reading, listening to others. Observing what happens every time. Learning the different facets of pain. I don’t know if I’d say it gets easier,” Michael says reflectively, “but it’s good to know what to expect. It makes more difference than you’d think. And I’ve been trying to talk to the others about that, when I have a chance,” she adds. “Like you did for me.”

Philippa beams at her, eyes soft. “The people you love are quite lucky to be supported by someone like you.” She rubs her thumb across Michael’s hand. “Just remember to take care of yourself as well.”

Michael gives Philippa’s hand a light squeeze. “I will.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the rain.

Michael thinks of the first conversation she had with Philippa after Philippa woke up in the hospital, when she admitted she was mourning the fact that she hadn’t been able to serve during the war; that she hadn’t been able to captain a ship or train young officers or otherwise contribute her skills and experience to the organization to which she’d dedicated her life.

“Philippa?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if you think about this much,” Michael says. “Or, you might, actually. You’re good at not discounting your own abilities; that’s one of the most important things you helped me learn to do myself--” She’s getting off topic. “But I don’t know if you’ve been thinking about how much influence you had even while you were--gone--or if anyone has taken the time to point it out. All those officers and crewmen you trained over the years, hundreds and hundreds of us who served with you...they were all over the fleet, serving on their own ships, using the tactical and strategic skills you helped us develop. And other skills, too, the ones Starfleet doesn’t teach, or doesn’t teach enough. I still remember the things you said, back on the Shenzhou, about what happens after danger and loss. How the mind processes trauma and grief, and how to let it happen without being alarmed or ashamed.” She waves a vague hand around at the fields and the trees and back to herself, invoking with the gesture how she let herself cry out here in the rain without self-recrimination. “And I am far from the only one. There are a lot of people in Starfleet right now navigating pain and loss, and all of us who heard you talk about it are now able to talk about it with the people around them.”

Philippa is quiet for a moment, staring off into the drizzling rain, and when she turns back to Michael, her eyes look suspiciously moist.

“Thank you, Michael,” she says softly.

There is silence for another moment, broken when Philppa says, a hint of a smile in her voice, “It’s funny you should mention such a thing. I’ve received quite a few very sweet messages from people I’ve served with over the years, wishing me well. Some of them have mentioned how things I taught them or helped them learn were of use to them during the war. One message in particular comes to mind.”

“Oh?” Michael asks, curious.

“Do you remember Ensign Jenkins? Lieutenant Jenkins, now.”

Michael nods, then shakes her head fondly. “Do I. That kid who came up to me like he was trying to solve the world’s most mystifying alien puzzle, trying to reconcile the fact that you were known as a tough war veteran of a captain, ‘so why is she so touchy-feely?’”

Philippa grins widely. “He’s on his second ship since the Shenzhou now, and he served as a helm officer during the war. But now, he enrolled in a fast-track counsellor training program on top of his regular duties. He told me that the things I talked about on the Shenzhou helped him think about trauma and danger differently, and that all through the war, whenever he had a chance, he tried to talk to his crewmates about effectively managing trauma and stress. Now he sees how many people around him are struggling, and he said that someone needs to help and it might as well be him.”

Michael’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding me.”

Philippa beams, mischief and pride sparkling from behind her still-watery eyes. “What have I always told you, Number One? Life gives us the opportunity to take unexpected paths sometimes.”

Michael laughs, shaking her head. “ _Unexpected paths_ is one thing, _Jenkins as a counselor_ is another.” Her laughter fades to a quiet smile as she adds more seriously, “He’s going to be very needed, isn’t he? And very good at what he does. He’ll be able to talk to all the…” She can’t help smiling, shaking her head fondly again. “All the younger Jenkins-es of the ‘fleet.”

Philippa smiles softly, staring off into the hazy distance. “Indeed he will.”

“I don’t always think of it as a skill,” Michael says quietly. “But it is, isn’t it? Something that can be learned and practiced, like anything else. Getting through pain. Navigating loss.” Sarek, for all his faults, even acknowledged as much when he found Michael a place on the Shenzhou, hoping she would pick up some of Philippa’s expertise on the subject--even if it wasn’t until Philippa told her so in anger seven years later that Michael realized that that had been his intention, given that he had never deigned to inform her of the fact.

Philippa nods. “It is. It took me far longer than you to realize that. But it is. And a valuable skill, at that.” She smiles at Michael, her eyes sad. “I wish that you had not had so many opportunities in your life to practice that skill, Michael. But I am not surprised to hear how far you have come while I was gone, or the expertise you have developed in navigating such things.”

“Thank you,” Michael says, a warm emotion rising in her chest. “I’m glad you think so.”

Philippa winks at her. “I don’t think so, I know so.”

Michael rolls her eyes.

They sit quietly for another minute, watching the rain letting up and the landscape coming back into focus around them. By now, it’s late enough in the day that the slight lifting of the cloudcover is counterbalanced by the darkening of the sky as early evening approaches.

“The universe will need people like us quite badly now,” Philippa says softly.

Michael blinks her gaze away from the landscape, shifting to stand up. “And I should probably get back to work,” she finishes, thinking of the waiting PADDs with information on tomorrow’s supply inventory meetings. There is something else she needs to say to Philippa, but she’s spent quite a while out here already, and she can say it on the walk back to the hotel.

Philippa tugs her gently back down to the bench. “And it’s all the more important to rest while we can,” she corrects.

Michael grins despite herself. “I see.”

“I’m glad you do.”

The rain has finally stopped, the only noise around them the dripping of water through the leafy canopy overhead. Philippa wrinkles up her face as a small shower of raindrops tumbles off a branch and into her hair, and Michael giggles at her aggrieved expression. It still feels a little odd, even after all these years among Humans, to laugh out loud without hesitation. Odd, but good.

Watching Philippa punctiliously tuck her soggy hair behind her ears, Michael sobers again.

“Philippa?”

“Hmm?” Philippa looks back over at her.

“ _Thank you_ for what you did for me today,” Michael says. “If...I know that you’re going through a lot, now, too. I’ll be here, if you need anything. I know that you have other people you can go to for help, all your captain friends you’d talk to when things got challenging back on the Shenzhou, but everyone’s going through so much right now, and if you need someone to talk to…” She takes a deep breath, swallowing the lump of emotion in her throat. “I’m here. _Always._ ”

“Thank you, Michael,” Philippa says, meeting Michael’s eyes. She looks touched, but Michael also has the undefinable sense that she is not wholeheartedly planning to take Michael up on her offer. It’s not that Michael has never been the one to support or comfort Philippa; quite the opposite. Still, in the past, strength and comfort and advice have flowed from Philippa to Michael more often than they have the other way around, and now that Philippa’s other friends are more likely than ever to be spread thin and grieving themselves--or lost to the war, she thinks, with a stab of sorrow--Michael wants her to know that it doesn’t have to be that way now.

She squeezes Philippa’s hand gently, cradling it in hers. “I’m serious. I’m here for you, if you need me.”

“Thank you,” Philippa says again, smiling softly, and this time Michael senses that she really is taking her words to heart. “I will remember that.”

Philippa folds her right hand over top of their clasped hands, so that she is holding Michael’s hand comfortingly between both of her palms. The feeling is soothing, but the dynamic is still the opposite of what Michael is trying to achieve, and she swoops her own left hand upward from her side to wrap it definitively around Philippa’s.

Philippa bursts out laughing. “All right, Number One, you’ve made your point.”

Michael grins, looking down at their hands and chuckling.

“Neither of us have to be alone in this,” Philippa says, still smiling, but with an undercurrent of emotion audible beneath her words.

“No,” says Michael softly. “We don’t.”

The last thing she needed to communicate now fully communicated, she can feel herself sag slightly as a wave of exhaustion hits her. Exhaustion, sadness, relief, gratitude, hope.

Well, at this point, mostly just exhaustion. She yawns, making Philippa chuckle.

“This probably isn’t going to be the last time this happens,” she murmurs at the end of her yawn, gesturing once again at the fields and the clouds and herself.

“That’s one of the hardest things I ever had to learn, myself,” Philippa says reflectively, raising one hand in a shrug-like gesture. “That you can cry and scream and punch things and feel as though you’ve let it all out, and it will _still_ hit you again, some time.”

“It does feel better now, though,” Michael says, mentally prodding at the painful images that overtook her earlier today, now faded slightly, like paper photographs in the sun, and resting quietly in the back of her mind. “Changed.”

“I’m glad,” Philippa says gently, smiling.

Michael smiles back, feeling her eyelids flutter. Mind and body, she is exhausted, and, though the day is warm, spending so long soaked to the skin has finally begun to make her feel noticeably cold. A hot shower sounds wonderful, and she’ll need to begin the process of returning her hair to its pre-rain state before dinner. And start on those PADDs.

Still. No harm in taking another minute to rest on this bench. If it will make Philippa happy.

“I _am_ relieved that some of it finally hit me,” Michael says quietly. “There’s so much to process. So many different facets and nuances to figuring things out. I’m glad we’re all working on that, in our own ways.”

Philippa smiles, gazing contentedly out towards the horizon. “Somehow, I think that we will be able to keep figuring things out.”

“Yes,” Michael says. “I think we will.”


End file.
